On to This Eternity Thing

I hope it won’t be bad writing that finally kills me

By Happy City 21 on iStock (image licensed by author)

I will die in bed,
at least that’s my plan.
Warm blankie, the wife’s hand,
maybe a dog snuggled in,
but such a cliché way
to leave for a wannabe poet.

My favorite end seat at my
local bar was my first choice,
out of the traffic flow, near
the window on sunny days,
a good place to smile, fall off
my stool, and get on with this
eternity thing, but so messy,
and Cheryl, my cherished
bar tender, would have to deal
with me on the floor dead
and another unpaid bar bill.

My wife thinks it will be death
by bad writing, me sitting in my
old blue chair late at night, mumbling
loud enough to wake her up, how I spit,
how did this garbage get published
and why did I buy it… then my brain
explodes and I die with an expensive
book of bad poetry in my lap.